


Rocket Man

by chinesebakery



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinesebakery/pseuds/chinesebakery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“JEMMAAAA!” Fitz hollered. “Have you seen my mask?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocket Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agentcalliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentcalliope/gifts).



> Prompt: Lois Lane: boy/girl ~~friend~~ is a superhero with a secret identity.

“JEMMAAAA!” Fitz hollered. “Have you seen my mask?”

“Have you looked through the mounting pile of garbage by your desk?” Jemma shouted in return, not bothering to look up from her reading.

When he erupted into her room, where she was lounging on her bed with a novel Fitz would, no doubt, deem thoroughly scandalous, Jemma noticed several strategic layers of his superhero costume seemed to be missing.

“Hey!” Fitz exclaimed, affronted. “It’s not garbage, it's– miscellaneous… stuff,” he finished lamely, managing only barely to stifle the temptation to sulk.

“Mmhmm.”

The depth of her disapproval was conspicuous in the angle of her raised eyebrow. With a sigh, she put her book down, aligning the spine neatly to the edge of her desk, and sauntered past him in the direction of his bedroom.

It took her one surveying look around to immediately locate Rocket Man’s signature piece of attire, hanging from the armrest of his chair.

“You didn’t even try, did you?” Huffing an incensed sigh, she went to pick it up, realizing too late is was not his mask but his… super underwear. Outerwear? Either, way, it was gross.

“Ugh, Fitz,” she said, holding the black cloth up between her thumb and index finger with a disgusted pout. “I’m your flatmate, not your cleaning lady.”

“I didn’t ask you to clean anything!” he screeched, his voice a full octave higher than usual, before ripping the offensive garments from her hands.

Jemma was about to reply when she noticed the alarming tint of his face –something between uncooked crawfish and ripe cherry– and ultimately ruled against it. Burying her hands in her jeans pockets to retrieve some sort of composure, she asked, “So, what’s the emergency?”

“Rerouted power plant,” Fitz bit out, stepping into his briefs one foot after the other and pulling them up his legs, which, perplexingly, brought colors to Jemma’s cheeks in turn. The skintight suit didn’t leave much to the imagination, yet she always found ways to become flustered around him.

“No one needs that much electricity for a good deed,” Fitz continued, oblivious.

“You’re probably right,” she said, pivoting on her heels before he could notice her burning face. “I’ll, uh, give you some privacy!”  
  
  


When he came home later that night, exhausted by all the heroics and dripping from the downpour he’d had to fly through on his way back, Fitz found a sandwich waiting for him on the kitchen counter –prosciutto and homemade pesto aioli, his favorite– and a note congratulating him for yet another successful mission.

As a thankful gesture, Fitz made a point to neatly fold his costume before going to bed.


End file.
